One of the first parades I remember
was in late February 1962. I was eight
years old and living outside Washington, D.C.
My father and I drove into the city and found a spot to stand along
Pennsylvania Avenue. We were there to
see my boyhood hero, John Glenn. Just
days earlier Glenn had become the first American to orbit the earth. President Kennedy had escorted him from Cape
Canaveral to the nation’s capital, and now he, along with the other Mercury 7
astronauts, was being honored with a parade from the White House to the Capitol
where a joint meeting of Congress was waiting to pay them tribute. I still remember the thrill of seeing those
heroes drive by accompanied by the Vice President of the United States. They symbolized all that was good and promising,
all that was possible, not just for America but for the entire human race. No longer were we bound by the confines of
this planet. The stars were within our
reach. What a marvelous day that was to
be eight years old.

We’ve accomplished a lot in the decades since
that parade. Where we invested effort,
determination and ingenuity, we’ve made remarkable progress. We met Kennedy’s challenge to put a man on
the moon by the end of that decade.
We’ve sent spacecraft beyond the reaches of the solar system and
penetrated the mysteries of a black hole.
We live longer. Our children are
healthier. We’ve made progress in civil
rights and women’s equality. But there
are some things that haven’t changed, some things that no amount of energy or
grit or resolve can alter.

We’ve figured out how to break free
from the limits of the earth, but we’re still bound by the limits of our
humanity. One of the first things you
realize when you’re a child is that you have limits. That’s what makes the terrible twos so
terrible. Children discover that the
world won’t accommodate their every desire on demand, and it makes them
furious. The older you get, the more
aware you are of your limits. When I was
sixteen I finally admitted to myself that I would never be first chair trumpet
as long as Bob and Manuel were in the high school band. By the time you’re middle aged, you know
there are certain things you dreamed of doing that you probably won’t do. One characteristic of wisdom is recognizing
our limits and learning how to live fully within them.

Neither have we figured out how to
stop things from changing. The car that
made us feel so up-to-date when we bought it new starts to look drab and
worn. The fresh new-car smell gives way
to that tired aroma of worn upholstery.
The best friend with whom you share everything moves away. Children grow up. You long to go back to those days when they
bugged you to play their games, games that seemed so trivial compared to the
important things you had to do. Now they
have more important things to do, and there are things you wish you could do
over. Life is transient. You can’t hold on to anything and keep it the
same, no matter how hard you try.

And we haven’t figured out how to
keep from dying. We can extend life and,
in many ways, make it better, but it still ends. Along with all the other animals, we have an
instinctive aversion to death and an innate desire to survive. But unlike other creatures, we are aware of
our own death. It casts a shadow over
life. We know that no matter what we do
our days will one day come to an end.[1]

Today we remember another parade, one
that took place 2000 years ago. I
suspect that the people who lined the parade route into Jerusalem were there
for reasons that were similar to the reasons that took Dad and me into
Washington, D.C., that damp February day in 1962. They were there to catch a glimpse of someone
who had done an incredible thing and who held out the promise of things even
more amazing.

Jesus had done many remarkable things,
but what was creating all the buzz, according to John, was what he did for
Lazarus. Lazarus had been dead for four
days when Jesus called him out of the tomb.
It was clear now that Jesus had God’s power on his side. People were counting on him to use that
power to restore Israel to the glory it had in the days of David and
Solomon. He would throw out the
Romans. He would set up a throne on Mt.
Zion. It would be glorious, the way
Jesus would use his power.

But in the grand scheme of things
what the crowds expected from Jesus was the same old thing. The kind of glory they expected from Jesus
the conquering hero eventually fades.
Other empires rise to power and dominate the world. And not even the most powerful emperor can
conquer death.

Jesus was coming with another kind of
power, power not even his disciples understood until he had died on the
cross. The power Jesus brought is the
power that created the universe and breathed life into us. It’s the power that never changes through all
the changes of our years. It is the
power of God’s love, the love that gives itself completely to the ones God
loves. It is the love that transforms us
from the inside out by taking on our limits, our transience and even our death.

If
you were to chart the story told in the gospel of John, it would look like a
great arc – an inverted parabola. Jesus
starts on high with the Father in all the glory and splendor of heaven. He comes down and lives among us, taking on
everything that makes us human except our sin.
He experiences the limitations of our human bodies. He endures first the hosannas of the Palm
Sunday parade and then the derision of the Good Friday mob. Jesus takes on himself everything that is
human and carries it to the cross. He is
anointed, but his anointing is for death.
He wears a purple robe, but it is the cloak of mockery. He is presented to his people, and they
reject him. He is lifted up, but it is
on a cross. And on that cross he draws
all people to himself.[2] “He did not regard equality with God as
something to be exploited, but emptied himself… being born in human
likeness. And being found in human form,
he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death – even death on a
cross. Therefore, God also highly
exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name
of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God
the Father.”

A while back I had the privilege of
giving the blessing at the dedication of a new facility for homeless people in the
city where I lived. The ecumenical agency that helps the homeless had acquired
a former rehabilitation center and converted it into apartments. After the
ceremony there was punch and cookies, and I was visiting with one of the
residents of the men’s floor. He asked
if I’d like to see his new home, and I said “Of course.” He took me down the hall of what used to be a
nursing home and proudly opened the door of his room. It was a simple place – a small room with a
bed, a dresser, two chairs, a tape player and a small TV. Over and over again he said how grateful he
was for it. That room – his home –
symbolized for him his new life. And he
was emphatic that it was because of Jesus.
Jesus had reached down to him in the gutter, opened his heart, and
invited him to turn his life over to God.
He did, and Jesus, working through the ministry of the shelter and the
churches that supported it, rescued him from the street.

That’s where real power lies. We can reach for the stars. We can cure diseases. We can improve the quality of life. Thanks be to God for the ability we have to
make the world a better place. But only
God can change lives from the inside out.
God does it by touching the depths of our souls, by coming to us in
Christ and redeeming us through his grace.
And not only our souls, but all creation will one day be changed by his
love that gives and gives and gives until in emptying himself he is exalted in
glory. “Look, your king is coming,
sitting on a donkey’s colt.” Hosanna in the highest!

[1] From a
talk by Martin E. Marty at Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, March
1998.